The Legacy Builder (The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart Book 1)

by Ember Lane

  “No,” Bethe said. “It just took me a while to interrupt you. Not too long, though.”

  Lincoln blushed. Bethe floated off. Glenwyth pulled him close, and they settled into a walk, soon over the rocky plateau by the ogre’s cave, and soon back in the academy.

  “So tell me,” Lincoln asked Glenwyth, pulling her back, wanting the last hour to linger a little longer. She stared up at him.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you sleep better, now that you understand that you haven’t become suddenly evil?”

  Glenwyth bit her lip. “No,” she said, after a short while. “I will sleep better because I must embrace the change. I will sleep better knowing that I must change, but I will never sleep better rejoicing in my loss of innocence.” She reached up, and kissed him softly on the cheek. “And all the while I am with you, I will sleep because I am content.”

  Lincoln nodded. “All the while?”

  “It is a feeling I have. I think my future lies beyond this circle of land and farther than the valley over. A stranger comes. I feel it, and the stranger will need my help.” Tears hatched in the corner of her eyes. “I hope I am wrong, Lincoln the builder. I hope I am wrong, and I can stay with you.”

  Lincoln took her in his arms and hugged her as she sobbed gently. They stayed like that for mere moments.

  Like the faintest whisper, Lincoln thought he could hear his name being called. It grew louder and louder, and he recognized it to be Grimble’s growl. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dwarf running toward the settlement. He gave Glenwyth one last squeeze, and pushed her slightly away. “Well, we can be together until the stranger comes.”

  “That we can,” Glenwyth whispered, and then pulled him toward the edge of the academy, and they dashed after the running Grimble. Running was perhaps a strong word given the dwarf’s shuffle, Lincoln thought, but whatever it was, Grimble was a dwarf on a mission.

  “Lincoln!” Grimble shouted as he went. “Lincoln!”

  “Ho!” Lincoln called from behind, as they darted after him. They clashed midway between the academy and the first of the cottages, and Grimble doubled over in exhaustion.

  “Not cut out fer running. Not at all.”

  “What’s so important?”

  “Stone dwarves,” he said. “I went up to see ‘em, make sure it was all going smooth and that, an’ they were all sobbin’.”

  “Sobbin’?”

  “Death!” the dwarf spat.

  “Death?” both Lincoln and Glenwyth blurted.

  Grimble eyed them up and down, clearly wondering if they were teasing him. “Yeah, death, and no laughing matter. Evil, true evil has graced this land—some say from Ruse itself. A dwarven king has fallen and so has a sorceress from beyond the mists.”

  “And the dwarves are mourning?” Lincoln shrugged, unsure of what it meant for him. “Do I need to divert workers or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. He was old, very old, and deep-down dwarves are distant relations, but the death of a great king deserves at least a pause in the banging and chiseling, and dwarves like to sob. No, it’s not that, you needn’t worry about that.”

  “Well, what is it then?” Lincoln was concerned because the dwarf had worry etched all over his face.

  “The prophecy tells that war follows on the heels of the king’s death.”

  “Too soon.”

  “Aye, too soon. There’s more,” Grimble said.

  “More?”

  “Have you ever heard of a Katrox?”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a wraith, a shadow. Things are afoot outside. The dwarven king was possessed by a wraith and died because of it. The boy, Zender, oversteps.” Lincoln nodded, though Grimble’s words exposed his lack of knowledge of the world he now lived in, and they were said with enough graveness that he knew it was bad, very bad.

  Glenwyth sprinted off to find Jack and Rob, to tell them that Gillian might have returned. Meanwhile, both Lincoln and Grimble hightailed it back to the tavern, where they found Ozmic, Aezal, Jin, and Crags. Jin was nursing a blackened, swollen eye, cut and bruised cheeks and looked like he was holding a cracked rib or two. Looking up and wincing, he tried a half smile.

  “Next time I’ll just get her slightly angry,” he said.

  “Sounds a better plan, though we might just need that temper sooner that we thought.”

  “What?” Jin said. Aezal and Crags stopped their chatter and looked up. Ozmic was already in deep conversation with Grimble.

  He cleared his throat. “The death of Aragnoor is dark news indeed. That a wraith could possess and then suck the health out of such a high-level dwarf makes it darker.”

  Jin took a sup of his ale. “Possession by a wraith shows a measure of complicity.”

  Both Grimble and Ozmic stared at the dark elf. “Be careful what you say, elf,” Ozmic muttered, standing over him.

  Jin appeared confused, as if what he had said could not be argued against. “What part of 'possession' don’t you understand? To be taken by the wraith, you have to be in the same room as its carrier, therefore, Aragnoor must have been in talks, at the very least, with agents of the boy, Zender.”

  “You think the dwarves are in cahoots with Ruse?” Grimble growled.

  “I said talks, not allied, or in league. Only a fool of a leader doesn’t consider all angles. Perhaps he denied them, and they saw the wraith as the only way. Given his age, in spite of his level, his mind might have been fragile, open—even drugged.”

  Grimble and Ozmic looked like they were fit to burst. “No dwarf—” Ozmic made to say, jostling in front of Grimble in a bid to bash Jin first.

  “Look,” said Jin, holding his hands up. “Don’t get your beards in a twist. You agree Aragnoor was possessed?”

  “Yer,” they both growled, begrudgingly.

  “And you agree the wraith spawned in Ruse?”

  “Yer,” they both said, shuffling from foot to foot, eyeing their ales.

  “Then we agree. Ruse was behind the dwarf king’s demise.”

  Dunaric clattered through the door. Behind him, a dozen stone-cutting dwarves waited to barge through. “Aragnoor is without stain,” he said, his tone inviting no argument. “Now, in true tradition, time fer a dozen or more ales.” And they all piled in.

  The dwarves took up a third of the inn, but their voices took it over completely. Lincoln watched them drain one ale after the next, and was glad he’d upped his stocks and pinched a bot so that new ale was constantly being brewed. He wanted to get a word with Dunaric and find out a bit more about the prophecy, but Dunaric was elbow deep in sorrow and ale. Lincoln didn’t want to get dragged into that.

  “Don’t worry about yer quarries an’ yer mines,” Dunaric yelled. “Them copper-bots ‘r taking care of ‘em,” and Lincoln knew the dwarves were camped for the day.

  He wandered outside to see if there was any sign of Glenwyth, but instead saw Elleren riding over the bridge on a piebald horse. It reminded him of Bethe’s warning. Great funnels of smoke plumed out of its nostrils, and Elleren jumped off in mid-gallop. She beckoned him over to her, gasping for breath herself.

  “What?” Lincoln asked, wondering if the day could get any weirder.

  “Sanctuary is being attacked,” she said.

  22

  Mezzerain

  Lincoln’s heart nearly stopped. “Attacked? Who? Where from? How many? Is everyone safe?”

  “Forgarth is countering.” She called the horse back around, jumping on and offering her hand.

  Lincoln dithered for but a second, and then jumped on. Elleren kicked the horse into a gallop, and they flew over the bridge, past the farms, warehouse, empty barracks, and on toward the ridge. Without breaking stride, they shot into the tunnel and then banked sharply—the beast taking the steps easily. Before Lincoln knew it, he was in the forest and then bursting into the clearing. Elleren pulled the mount to a halt and jumped off. Lincoln slid off after, not quite understanding what he was seeing
. He’d expected to see something far worse.

  The One Tree looked vibrant, new shoots shooting, buds budding, and bright green leaves unfurling in the midday sun. The cottages were all in one piece too. In fact there was no sign of any attack apart from a single soldier staked to the ground by about thirty pegs and about a dozen ropes crisscrossing his massive body.

  Perhaps single soldier was an understatement. The man was a beast, a brute and a giant. Though not as big as Pete, he wasn’t much shorter. He had trunks for legs, trunks for arms, and a bald head that looked like it could split rocks just by brushing against them. He looked like a warrior and a mercenary, and he was almost certainly a hero.

  “Oooops,” said Lincoln, thinking about the script he’d nailed to the tavern’s wall. Forgarth marched up to him.

  “He charged through the forest like a beast possessed,” Forgarth stated.

  “I did not,” shouted the man.

  “We fought him tooth and nail,” Forgarth cried.

  “You all ran away,” the man growled.

  “And then,” Forgarth continued. “In a titanic battle, we finally felled him.”

  “You shot me with about a dozen poison-tipped arrows, and from up in the trees,” the man muttered.

  Forgarth turned and stared down at the roped beast. “Though he fought bravely, we bested him. We defended our lands.”

  “I wasn’t attacking you! How many times? There is some power at hand that drew me here.”

  “About that—” Lincoln made to say, but Forgarth interrupted.

  “You attacked one of our sawmills.”

  “I did no such thing. I merely asked for directions. Your little elves ran away like kids caught in a honeypot.”

  “You attacked and then you ran through the forest like a raging boar, until we felled you in a last-ditch stand.”

  “I ran after them to find my way out of this damned forest. It’s the thickest, densest, dankest forest I have ever ventured through,” the warrior said, in a curiously resigned voice.

  “And attacked this village!” Forgarth raged.

  “I was looking for the tavern that was calling me!” the man-mountain said through gritted teeth.

  “Buildings don’t call to anyone!” Forgarth pointed out.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Lincoln shouted. “Echo!”

  Echo appeared by his side. “Yes, Lincoln.”

  “What devilry is that?” the prone soldier asked, looking up at Echo, a revolted grimace etched between the scars on his face.

  “Echo,” said Lincoln, ignoring the man. “Any damage to any mills, quarries, or mines?”

  “No Lincoln, everything is functioning.”

  “Good. Forgarth, if I remove this man from the valley, will you be satisfied with that?”

  “Well, no elf was injured. So, I could let it pass.”

  “Yer little scamps didn’t get close enough to get injured,” the warrior barked.

  “We fought a valiant—”

  “All right, all right,” said Lincoln. “You sir…”

  “Mezzerain.”

  “Mezzerain, if I take you to the tavern, would you forget this little incarceration?”

  “For an ale or two, I could forget their inhospitableness.”

  “Promise?”

  The elves raised their bows and retreated back.

  “They’ll only put me to sleep again,” Mezzerain growled.

  Lincoln bent and cut the man’s ties. He made to pull him up, but decided against it. After the man had finished standing, Lincoln took a step back. “Forgarth, I’d like a couple of horses. I feel I might need to come here every day from now on. Incursions into your forest will come thick and fast. We need to start preparing. We need to get that wall up.”

  “It’s closer than you think,” Mezzerain growled. “But that’s a tale fer an ale or two.”

  Forgarth looked Lincoln up and down. “Has the dark one muddled your mind? The tree is thriving again: peace reigns.”

  Lincoln told Forgarth about the dwarf king. Mezzerain told him of clouds gathering on Irydia’s horizon and beyond. When the warrior was done, Forgarth had visibly paled. Then Mezzerain issued him a dire warning.

  “I come from a land called Valkyrie,” he said. “There are no elves there now—none of your type, anyway. When your slaughter comes, little one, it will be fast and over before your first scream dies. They’ll be no hiding behind poisoned arrows. Only the dark elves will endure.”

  Lincoln remained silent while Mezzerain’s words still rang in Forgarth’s ears. Elleren came with two more horses, which they then mounted and left, Elleren in tow. She said she wanted to see Glenwyth, but Lincoln suspected she was seeing her tribe for what it was. Once through the tunnel, they eased the horses to a walk.

  “Where’s Valkyrie?” Lincoln asked.

  Mezzerain looked him up and down. “New to the land?”

  “A moonful of days,” Lincoln replied.

  “So, you know about a hundred miles worth.”

  “And had quite an adventure on the way.”

  Mezzerain leaned forward, stroking his horse’s mane. “Then I’ll keep it simple. Ruse is bad, everything else is just different shades of shit.”

  “So where’s Valkyrie?”

  “Beyond the mists, but then, you probably don’t know about them either. Say, you actually in charge of all this?”

  “Seems that way.”

  Mezzerain looked around. “Not bad for a handful of days. Imagine what you could achieve if you lasted a year.”

  “Gonna build me a wall across the valley.”

  “Make it a tall one,” Mezzerain grunted. “And start it soon. Yeah, make it a tall one.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Then that should tell you just how tall it should be.”

  “Fifty feet?”

  Mezzerain shrugged. “That’d be a good start. You’ve got plenty of stone.” He gazed up at the mountain, and then around the vale. “Any other ways in?”

  “Just one.”

  “Fortified?”

  “Easily.”

  “Then you might hold out, then again, you might not have the time. All depends on the wall. That’s a lot of stone to move.”

  Lincoln laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I cheat a lot.”

  Mezzerain grunted, and they rode along in silence for a while, until Lincoln ventured another question.

  “What’s Ruse like?” Lincoln had only really heard it whispered about, but this man seemed to be happy to talk freely.

  Mezzerain took a deep breath. “Ruse…only been close the once. Had a parlay with the boy, Zender, and his master, a fat, round god called Belved. So, I can’t tell you what it’s like, just what everyone thinks it’s like. But, I saw the coast, and it was like a midnight speckled with a million fires. Zender, ShadowDancer, whatever you want to call him, was as pale as a newborn, with the confidence of a seasoned veteran. Meeting them was like meeting your death.”

  “Grim,” Lincoln muttered.

  “And some. I’ve heard tell that Ruse is the land of lies, and that the value of words is mere dust. But let me tell you, every word the boy, Zender, said to me burrowed into me and etched its meaning on my bones. He will not stop until his god reigns supreme.” Mezzerain paused, smacking his lips in thought. “No, I don’t believe he will stop then. I think he will kill Belved’s brothers and sisters one by one until there is just him and his master, and then, finally, the dog will turn.”

  Mezzerain steered his mount closer to Lincoln.

  “Well,” he said. “You did ask.”

  A shiver ran through Lincoln’s old bones. “So, is there no stopping him?”

  “Isn’t that the question? Will a hero come? You tell me. The land needs one, because in the face of evil, good invariably crumbles. Just look at those crazy elves. Is that the best you’ve got?”

  Lincoln glanced at Elleren, but the elf’s eyes were fixed on her mou
nt’s shoulders.

  “Nah,” Lincoln said. “I’m breeding power elves up here. Just got to get another few to join me.”

  Elleren looked up. “Teach me,” she said, and Lincoln grinned.

  “I think that’s Glenwyth’s job.” Then it dawned on him that he hadn’t asked about the tree elves. “Do you know where they went?”

  “They have left?”

  “Their village is empty. I assumed they’d run to you, to Forgarth.”

  “No, they did not come through the tunnel.”

  “Strange.”

  Elleren sniffed the air. “Are you sure they are missing? I can smell their scent.”

  “You mean they’ve returned?”

  Elleren pointed. “I don’t think they’re all human, do you?”

  They were in sight of the village, just on the edge of the farms. At first, Lincoln assumed that the gathered crowd was the settlers he’d seen coming through the fissure, but there were far too many, and a speckling of green hinted at what Elleren meant.

  “You don’t think?” Lincoln asked.

  “I do,” Elleren said, and galloped off.

  “What?” Mezzerain asked.

  “It seems this tribe of elves might be up for a fight.”

  “You know something, Lincoln?” Mezzerain drew his horse close and leaned across. “If you can get the elves to fight, truly fight, and for themselves, well, you might just have a chance. I’ve seen a whole load of things in my time. I’ve seen the gates of Striker Bay, and sea monsters the size of boats. I’ve seen a dragon circle the old castle at Horn’s Isle—many, many things—but, there is nothing quite like seeing a motivated elf fight hard. It’s both majestic and breathtaking. It’s swift and brutal. Trouble is, it’s always for a cause. They just can’t seem to get worked up enough to fight for themselves. Always gotta be a cause.”

  “What about you?”

  Mezzerain grunted. “I came to this land to fight alongside a legend. My fallen god, Taric, his days are done, and so I fight alongside the Old Ones now, and there is none more so than Sakina, but you’d know that.”

  “Me?”

  “Your alignment, Mandrake. There is none older.”

  “So I’m told. So I’m told,” Lincoln muttered.